Jeremiah One and Only Covenant 5 of 5
by ladymanhammer
Summary: The last of my story series. I'm proud of me, aren't you. R R and don't forget to read the others.


The following story is entirely fictitious; any similarity to any person living or dead is entirely coincidental and unintentional except where noted in cast and crew disclaimers. All celebrity writings are impersonated and no celebrity has endorsed any aspect of this writing.  
  
Except for Gary Oldman and Clive Barker, who are always my inspirations.  
  
Can you believe it's the last story already?  
  
The following story is entirely fictitious. The Covenant Family is from the game Clive Barker's Undying distributed by Electronic Arts inc. All characters and plot are the property of said famous author and director and gaming distributor.  
  
This is the final story in Lady Manhammer's five story tribute to Clive Barker's game Undying. All five stories may be found on Fanfiction.net. The following story is that of Jeremiah Covenant, the final survivor of the Covenant Family. After a curse manifested by events at a stand of monoliths, his brothers and sisters have lived, died, and returned to bring their brother home. This is his account of the events that took place before, during, and post World War One.  
  
One and Only Covenant  
  
The curse flows through me like a crimson flood.  
As cancer wracks my body and mind,  
The Ritual continues through our blood.  
  
Cries erupt from the mounds of stone,  
Sanity and certainty are hard to find  
The curse flows through me like a crimson flood.  
  
Cancer speaks volumes of blood and bone  
Tainted fluid pools and clouds my mind.  
The Ritual continues through our blood.  
  
What once was buried now has shown  
With hellish light that renders me blind  
The curse flows through me like a crimson flood.  
  
For sins of my family I shall atone  
The shall never break the ties that bind  
The Ritual continues through our blood.  
  
My siblings, fetch me my tome  
I'll take us to that undying place within my mind  
The curse flows through me like a crimson flood.  
The Ritual continues through our blood.  
  
The Northern front, 1918  
  
The cold November air bit through Jeremiah's coat as he lay in the fox hole. He rolled over and tucked his hands into his sleeves again. His breath came in frosty gasps. He had been trying to stay awake for over three hours, and so far the only thing that kept him awake was the fear that a bomb would greet him when he awoke. He wondered.perhaps.if he just closed his eyes for a moment. A body was suddenly next to his. It came to the bottom of the fox hole like a marble falling into a can. He fell with a crash on his rear, brandished his gun and pulled the helmet back up out of his eyes. He rolled over and fired once, then settled down. He glanced at the man next to him once, then returned his eyes with a flash. "Lieutenant Covenant sir!" He snapped a quick salute. "Private Galloway, thank God," the older man said, snapping a salute of his own. The younger man smiled. "Did you think there were Trsanti raining from the sky, Lieutenant?" he asked. Jeremiah shivered again and smiled, "I'm so cold I wasn't thinking about them. I was more or less worried about the bombs." Private First Class in the First Irish Infantry Patrick Galloway laughed and pulled off one of his gloves. He reached into his pocket and took out a flask. "What have you there?" Jeremiah asked. "Brandy. Not supposed to have it, but I figured I would need it at some point. A fox hole is as good a place as any," Galloway said. He took a pull and handed it Jeremiah. Jeremiah smiled and took a swallow, then handed the flask back. "Good man," Jeremiah said. "Hope no one finds out about that," Galloway mused. "I won't tell," Jeremiah replied. They were silent for a moment. Bombs dropped in the distance. Jeremiah silently hoped they wouldn't come any closer. "How far away do you think they are?" Galloway asked. "The guns?" Jeremiah asked. "The Trsanti," the private corrected. "Far enough. As soon as the bombs stop, I'm going to pull the boys out and we'll pursue them. But we can't risk getting hit by our own bombs when we go looking for them," the lieutenant said. "Good plan," Galloway commented. "Thank you, Patrick." Jeremiah took off his glasses and wiped them on a white handkerchief. A red C was embroidered on the corner. Another silent moment. Jeremiah glanced at Patrick once, but he had nothing to say. Patrick had been his friend during the entire assault against the Trsanti. He had no problems telling him about his fears concerning the war. Aside from his weariness, and his fear of the bombs, new fears began to emerge. Thoughts of home crowded his mind. He suddenly needed to talk to someone about them. "Patrick, did I ever tell you about my family?" he asked. The private looked a little perplexed, but shook his head, "No, sir. You never told me." "Enough of that "sir", Patrick. We're not in roll call," Jeremiah scolded. "If you say so, Jeremiah. I thought it was a formality," Patrick said. "Well, consider the pleasantries disbanded," his lieutenant replied. Patrick saluted him again and turned his head, "So how about your family, Jeremiah? The only thing I know about it is that you have one." Jeremiah laughed. He shifted a little and put his hand in his pocket, "I don't talk about them much. I don't normally like to scare innocent people." Patrick laughed at that and took another pull on the flask. Jeremiah took out a wad of photos and continued, "I have four brothers and sister. My mother died giving birth to my youngest sister, Lizbeth." He handed Patrick a photo of a woman dressed in a brown gown. She had long brown hair and deep eyes. Patrick stared contentedly at Evaline Covenant and wondered what kind of mother she had been. "My father is at home, probably in his library, bent over one book or another with a magnifying glass in one hand and a cup of tea in the other," Jeremiah continued. He handed Patrick a picture of a man in his mid fifties. His hair was slicked back with ambergris and his eyes looked impatient to get back to work. Patrick very well envisioned Joseph Covenant the way Jeremiah had described him. "You must come and meet my family one day, Patrick. They are an eccentric lot, but they're not all bad, at least I don't like to think they are." Jeremiah handed his subordinate a picture of his youngest sister. Patrick nearly jumped. She was strikingly beautiful. He stared at the black and white photo as if looking upon an angel. Her face was angled down, and her hair was bright blond. She was lithe and pale. Had it not been for the wicked face she was making, Patrick could have happily died in that fox hole having laid his eyes on such a lovely creature. "That's Lizbeth. She would have been twenty this month, but she died of a wasting disease a few months ago. She was such a lovely girl, but she had quite a short fuse." "Blimey," Patrick said, shaking his head. Jeremiah handed him another picture. This one was of a young man, perhaps twenty-one going on twenty-two. His hair was shoulder length and brown. His eyes were cruel and hard. His jaw was set and his hand was wrapped around a large belt. The other hung at his side. Patrick could only imagine the muscles that would ripple beneath his shirt sleeves. "This is my youngest brother, Ambrose. He's about nineteen in this picture. Mean little bugger. He's always had a fiery temper and a very mean habit of hitting. Not as bad as Lizbeth, though. She was a biter, but Ambrose was a hellion from the start. From the moment he could walk he would cause trouble. I think its safe to say that more than one of my friends and teachers were afraid of him." Patrick tilted his head and stared at the picture of Ambrose, but found his thoughts returning to Lizbeth. Jeremiah took out another picture and handed it to Patrick. This one was of a woman, older than Lizbeth. She had red hair and blue eyes. This picture was faded and hard to see. She stood with her hands in front of her and her back straight. She looked very adult and worthy of respect. "This is my sister Bethany. She's only a year younger than me. She's a botanist of sorts. She spends a lot of time in the green house and rarely comes up to the manor for a visit, much less to spend time with us. She and I were very close when we were children. We were the inquisitive two. The Covenant Sleuths, the maids called us. It made her twin quite jealous." Jeremiah handed him a picture of a young man who looked strikingly similar to Bethany. His hair was red too and swept over to the side. He had a small beard of the same red hair. He was thin, almost gaunt, not healthy looking like his twin. "That's Aaron, Bethany's twin. They were close all up until they were about eleven. Then Aaron wanted to be alone. Not just away from Bethany, but quite alone. He's the one that wanted to be an artist, and he's quite gifted. I refuse to comment on his work, though. Let's just say he's talented and we'll leave it at that." Patrick smiled and handed the pictures back to him. There was nothing particularly sinister about his family. It was most likely dysfunctional, but most families had problems like that. "Nice family. I myself was the only child of a drunk and a bar maid. Nothing too great about my life," Patrick commented, "When this war is over, I'll be expectin' an invitation to dinner." Jeremiah patted him on the shoulder and laughed. Patrick offered his commanding officer another pull on the flask and he accepted. They were a strange pair huddled in that fox hole. When their laughter had died, Jeremiah stood up on his knees and peeked over the edge of the fox hole. The bombs had stopped and his second lieutenant was staring back at him. "All clear, Lieutenant Lightoller?" Jeremiah called. "All clear, Lieutenant Covenant," the second replied. Jeremiah turned and motioned for Patrick to follow him and they crawled on their bellies towards Lightoller's fox hole. The second lieutenant saluted his commanding officer and allowed Jeremiah and Patrick to crawl in with him. It was a much tighter fit now that there were four people in the fox hole, but Jeremiah didn't mind the cramped space, for it was much warmer now. Lightoller rolled over, "We got the call in five minutes ago, sir. Report says the Trsanti are moving north. They seem to be traveling with the bombs, keeping the guns between them and us." Jeremiah swore and grabbed the portable telegraph. A new report was coming in. Jeremiah ripped it from the machine: "Lieutenant, stop. Trsanti moving north, stop. Gunners have orders to move east towards the Germans, stop. Seek and destroy, stop" Jeremiah turned to Patrick, "Rally the men, Private Galloway, we march in ten." Galloway scrambled to his feet and sounded the advance. Jeremiah and his subordinates stood and readjusted their helmets. Jeremiah bade them form ranks, and they filed towards the north in pursuit of the Trsanti.  
  
Twenty five miles north of the trenches, the scout spotted Trsanti tracks. Jeremiah turned to his ranks. "Keep a sharp look out. The Trsanti are hunters. They raid in packs. If we are not careful, we could walk into a trap!" The unit continued at a slow crouch, fearful and watchful. With guns and bayonets raised, the troops whispered through the tall grass that covered the Irish farm land. Jeremiah found his thoughts returning again to home. He did not recognize any of the tracts of grass at all, but they bore such a resemblance to his own home that he wondered that if he looked over his shoulder, he would see Covenant Manor looming behind him threateningly, as if promising certain doom if he dared to return. Jeremiah entertained no thoughts of returning home a war hero. He was not a hero at all. A hero would have stayed home and borne the brunt of the curse with his siblings and father, not run away. Try as he might, he could not banish the thoughts of betrayal from his mind, could not justify his reasons for leaving. He was a coward plain and simple. For an hour they crouched and sometimes crawled in a northern direction. Jeremiah suddenly felt tensions rise. He had no idea how this perception came about, but Jeremiah had always been perceptive to changes in atmosphere-mundane or otherwise. He stood up abruptly and ordered a halt. His troops froze and fell to the ground on their bellies. Nothing happened. It was so utterly silent that the sound of bombs dropping would have been much more comforting. Jeremiah stood up and stared about him. He ordered his troops to stand with him. He heard, as if from the throws of some weird nightmare, a loud howling. Suddenly, to his distant right-for the troops had fanned out some two miles back-a man dropped screaming to the ground, and the sound of flesh tearing from bone. Jeremiah glared straight ahead of him. Patrick stared at his face, then followed his gaze. Standing before them on an outcropping of rock that jutted from the ground, was a shaman wrapped in skins and bearded and his head was cleanly shaven. He seemed to be glaring back at Jeremiah. Patrick was immobile. "AMBUSH!" a young man at the back of the ranks screamed. Just before the rest of the unit could turn, a Trsanti cut him down from behind with its large scimitar. Suddenly, as if they grew from the soil itself, sixty Trsanti stood up and began hacking the troops to pieces. One by one the young men of the group fell. The older, more seasoned fighters had time to raise their guns and fire. The primitive Trsanti fell like flies, but their own dead were nothing compared to the casualties the unit had already suffered before the troops had rallied themselves. Patrick ran quickly ahead, keeping the shaman in his sights. Jeremiah was no where to be seen. The shaman didn't seem to notice him. He continued to scream orders to his own troops as he waved something large and green over his head. Patrick couldn't understand his words. He assumed he spoke in Gallic, a language dead to all. The Trsanti responded quickly and began to rally themselves. Their numbers were dwindling, and only a few troops left of their original unit survived. Patrick managed to sneak up almost upon the shaman before the man turned upon him. Jeremiah had pulled three of his men into the tall grass, and- continually loading each other's guns while the other took aim and fired-brought down enough Trsanti to even out the odds. When the Trsanti were dying and flee, Jeremiah stood up and noticed Patrick close to the rock. He had locked eyes with the shaman and Jeremiah ran in his direction. His heart was heavy and his limbs were tired, but his mind was on fire. He had left his family, had run from his home in fear of a curse, and had taken these men under his charge. What was more, Patrick and he had become close friends, and he must help him in anyway he could. He was almost upon Patrick when the shaman struck like a snake. Patrick raised his gun, slowly taking aim. The shaman kept his eyes level, but perceived the movement. The private's eyes were drawn to the green, glowing stone in the shaman's hand. Patrick pulled the hammer back on his pistol slowly. His finger was on the trigger and then a flash of green bowled him over. The gun went off point blank, and as if by some blind fate, the shaman dropped out of sight and died of a bullet to the head. Jeremiah hadn't had time to reach him before the bright green glare and threw his friend to the ground. When he crouched beside his friend, he saw the extent of the burns. They wouldn't kill him, but he'd no doubt be a little scared. The skin around his left eye was black and his eyebrows were singed away, but he was breathing and Jeremiah sighed with relief. "Patrick, can you hear me?" he asked, shaking the man. The young man moaned and passed out. Jeremiah called Lightoller over and told the man to telegraph for a medical unit and get the wounded away from the place of battle. Jeremiah himself went around the back of the rock and saw the shaman, his skin grey and blood coming from his forehead. In his hand was the source of the green flash. It was a stone of fine radiance that felt warm to the touch. He plucked it from the stiff fingers of the dead Trsanti and stuffed it in his satchel. He returned to Patrick's side and didn't move until the man was placed on the stretcher, loaded into a medical truck and driven away.  
  
Patrick opened his eyes with a start and sat bolt upright in his cot. Suddenly, the right side of his face came to life as the singed nerve endings were pulled. He groaned and flopped back down, grabbing the side of his face. A female nurse rushed to his side and pulled his hand away from his face. She lifted the bandages and sighed. "They need to be changed, Private," she said. "Be a dear and stop poking at them." "What?" Patrick asked, wincing. "You've been pulling at those bandages all night like one possessed. If you don't leave those burns alone, they will only scar worse," the nurse explained, her light Irish accent grating on Patrick's jangled nerves. He'd forgotten that the accent of his homeland could be quite asinine. He regretted all those years in Paris and London. The nurse re-bandaged his face and Patrick bore the pain with stubborn silence. To distract himself, he turned his gaze around the hospital room. He was the only one there. "Where are all the others?" he asked. "All those who could walk pulled out this morning. You were still unconscious. Lieutenant Covenant pulled out this morning. I was wondering when you'd notice," the nurse replied. Patrick nodded and she tied off the bandage. "He left something for you," she continued. Patrick glanced up quickly and winced again as the tight bandages pulled at his blistered and scorched flesh. "What was that?" "He left something for you," she repeated, "Some sort of stone he took off of your assailant. No idea what it is, and apparently neither did he." "Well, hand it here woman," Patrick insisted. The nurse picked up a rag on the floor and unwrapped the wretched green stone that had burned Patrick so badly. He plucked it from her palm and started slightly at its warm touch. It glowed in his hand and when he stared at it hard, it grew brighter and brighter. He suddenly tore his eyes from it and it died in his hand. The thing had a life of its own. "He got this off the shaman?" Patrick asked. "He didn't exactly leave me with the detais, Private," the nurse retorted. Patrick saw the logic of that and lay back down on his cot, studying the stone. When his scrutiny was finished, he laid the stone on his bedside table and rolled over. He knew that as soon as he was up on his feet again, he was going to be doing a lot of studying in London.  
  
The Northern front, 1918  
  
Jeremiah was watching a line of combatants trek their way towards a local Irish village when he got the report that the war was over. His troops were elated. Half of their unit was gone, and most of the Irish countryside was marked with craters from the bombs, and they were going home today. They jumped up and down and a few of them shot their weapons harmlessly into the air. But Jeremiah's heart dropped to the dirty ground like a pebble dropped into a tepid pond. The war was over. There was nothing that could keep him from going home. He must return, face the hatred from his brother and sister and reencounter the pain and loss of losing two siblings. He had left Aaron and Bethany alone in the house. Father had died before he left, and Ambrose had run away a few days later. Lizbeth had died before Jeremiah went to war. He looked to the south, towards the Covenant Estate, and an overwhelming sense of dread came over him. Something wanted to draw him back and never let him go again, not while he was alive at least, and even death might not be enough to break those ties. A lower officer approached him with a message from his commander. He was being commended for his efforts in the Great War. With a medal of honor in his hand, he was granted leave and the next day began his journey back to the Estate. It was not a long journey. He had been lucky not to have been deployed to the German front-lucky in normal terms anyway. As he stood before the gates to the Estate, he would have given anything to have fought and died with his comrades on the German front, helping the English. But alas, those forces that had destroyed his family had kept him alive and brought him home. He started up the road leading to the manor, his head down and his shoulders sagging.  
  
She saw him coming up the road from a window upstairs. Bethany Covenant had been staying at the manor for a few days, keeping an eye on Aaron. She felt it was dangerous to leave him alone in the house, even with the maids and servants. He was not the type to be suicidal, but since Ambrose's disappearance, Bethany took it upon herself to make sure Aaron didn't do anything stupid. She'd been staying in her old rooms for a while. Her windows gazed out like dying eyes onto the front courtyard of the manor. A figure emerged from the slight mist hovering over the ground and Bethany turned quickly from the window. Her hard riding boots pounded on the hallway floor as she flung herself down to the foyer. "Eliza!" she shouted, knowing that no matter how loud she screamed that the maid wouldn't hear her so far down in the kitchens. But to Bethany's good fortune, the maid was not far off in the north wing. She came running on light feet to answer the call of her mistress. "Yes, Miss Bethany, what is it?" she asked calmly. "Its Jeremiah. He's come home from the war," Bethany said. She started taking the steps on the grand stair case two at a time. "Oh, thank Heavens!" Eliza said, clasping her hands between her breasts. She started down the stairs at a less break-neck speed than her former charge and followed Bethany as she flung upon the front door, where a very dirty, bedraggled, and weary Jeremiah Covenant was approaching the front stoop. She threw her arms around her brother and hugged him tight. Jeremiah lifted her from the ground and swung her around. It pleased and surprised him to see that his sister had missed him. He wondered if anyone happened to have told Aaron that he was home. He kissed her cheek and sighed. "Its so good to have you home, Jeremiah. You have no idea what kind of hell its been without you," she said. "I'm sure it wasn't all bad," Jeremiah said. He tried to sound hopeful, but the wad of horrible letters from Bethany in his pocket spoke otherwise. "Where is Aaron?" he asked. "Oh, I forgot to tell him you were here," she apologized. Jeremiah glanced at Eliza and maid shooed Bethany out of the way so that she could hug her oldest charge. She kissed his cheek and held him at arms length. "Its high time you came home, Jeremiah Covenant. I was beginning to think they'd dropped a bomb on you," she admonished. Jeremiah smiled and hung his head in mock apology for his tardiness as if he were twelve years old instead of almost thirty. "Come inside," the maid said, taking his hand, "I'll tell Mary Margaret to tell Aaron you're home." "No need," a voice said from behind them. Jeremiah glanced over Eliza's shoulder at the tall, red headed man standing behind her. Aaron's face was gaunt, his cheeks were hallowed and-if Jeremiah was not mistaken-his hairline was receding a bit. He embraced his younger brother. "Still no word from Ambrose?" he asked. Aaron and Bethany shook their heads. Eliza snorted. "Good riddance to him," she said. "He was nuthin' but trouble." Jeremiah didn't want to hear that, but no one ever wanted to hear the truth. Bethany smiled, "Come inside out of the cold, Jeremiah. We'll fix you tea, and tonight we'll have your favorite dinner." "Oh, its good to be home," Jeremiah said. It sounded odd to him, as if the thought had only now just occurred to him. He hadn't wanted to come home, but now that he was back he didn't want to leave. There were so many memories of this place-and so much tragedy.  
  
Jeremiah's Diary September 1922  
  
I am at last bed ridden. Once upon a morning I could stand and walk into my father's library and take my breakfast with him while he threw books down from his shelves or looked through a catalogue, searching for books to feed his hunger for answers. Ever since Bethany's death, I have been searching those same books myself. I have become what my father was, and every time I went into that library, I went in spite of my will to be different. Until last week. I was shuffling down the stairs when a bout of dizziness overtook me and I woke up at the foot of the stairs. Eliza rushed over to me, screaming at Mary Margaret to fetch the doctors in town. I didn't want to see the doctors again. I became a petulant child and tried to refuse, but in my weakened state, I was little trouble to handle. I was carried back to my rooms, placed in my bed and watched carefully until the doctor came. "Well, Mr. Covenant, you've taken a nasty fall down the stairs," he said, stating the obvious. "I don't understand," I said, "One moment I was fine, and the next I woke up at the foot of the stairs." The doctor nodded knowingly, "Well, Jeremiah, if you don't have the strength to walk, you shouldn't. You seem to be doing better, so I will leave you for now, but don't push yourself. You're body will heal in time. Just you wait." He gave me no hope. I laid in my bed contemplating my fate. I had been doing better before the black out on the stairs. I had been eating more, and keeping more of it down. I couldn't grasp the fact that I had suddenly taken a turn for the worst. I decided then and there to eat a hearty dinner and sleep well. In the morning I would wake up and go down to the cellar for some wine. In the morning I couldn't rise at all. My muscles seemed to be made of mud, and I could not even lift my finger to ring the bell for Eliza. I have no idea how long I laid there. Eliza finally became alarmed at not hearing a peep out of me all morning and finally came to my rescue. She could do little until the doctor arrived. I was more inclined to receive death than to receive the doctor, but he came anyway. I am not cheered to note the fact that these doctors that wait on me now are the same doctors that treated Lizbeth into the grave. He examined me and told me to remain in bed for a week. A week turned into a month, and the months turned into years. He couldn't explain the direction my body had chosen. There was no trace of degenerate disease in my family's history and he had treated two generations of it.  
  
September 1922  
  
I am now quite certain that the cancer is a better way to die. My family's mental history is tarnished with dementia and insanity beyond anything Aaron had done. I cannot imagine more horrible visions than my nightmares clouding my mind and razing it to its foundations. The fever is preferable, I think.  
  
September 1922  
  
I have seen more horrific activity in the last four weeks than I saw during all four years of war. The medicine that I am taking has caused ulcers so bad that I can hardly keep anything down. It keeps me alive, but in no state that I would care to live in. All vomiting aside, other strange things have been happening around the manor. Just yesterday, the butler told me that he has seen Lizbeth around the garden, especially around the family mausoleum. I have been hearing strange noises coming from the rooms upstairs, as if something planned to claw its way through the ceiling and rend the flesh from my bones. I cowered in my rooms until dawn and in the morning sent for Eliza. "Did you hear anything odd last night, Eliza?" I asked her. I dragged heavily on my pipe. "Nothing I haven't ever heard before, Mr. Jeremiah," she replied, biting her lower lip. I let it go at that and decided that I needed something to occupy my mind. I couldn't get up, and my limbs cried for movement that was impossible. There were too many stairs in the house to use a wheelchair, for I feared another headlong fall down a flight of them. For want of something better to do, I held my pipe between my teeth and reached over to my bedside table. I pulled open the top drawer and pulled out an old wad of photos. I'd shown them to Patrick Galloway almost four years ago during the war, our last assault against the Trsanti. I quite suddenly had an idea. Patrick told me in one of his letters that he felt like he owed me a life debt. I don't believe he does. I was a coward in the war, afraid of being deployed to Germany, or being killed by a Trsanti, or being sent home. Now that I look back on my behavior, I wish I could have died like every other soldier, but there was something here, at home, that told me to live, to come back and rejoin my family, alive and dead. I can't imagine why Patrick would want to come to this cursed place, but there are things happening here that I cannot explain and certainly cannot investigate while I lie here on my death bed, waiting for the shadows to jump down from the wall and attack me in my sleep. In spite of what he might think, I have decided to call in Patrick's life debt and bring him to Ireland. If I must continue to live, I want the rest of my days to come swiftly and without panic or fear. I welcome death and the reassurance that my family will stay in the grave.  
  
October, 1922  
  
My incessant questions about the events that occurred while I was away at war are giving rise to new suspicions about not only my physical state, but my mental state as well. I have over heard hushed conversations from the servants about what they seem to think is wrong with me. "Of course, the doctor's don't know anything about it, I mean really know," I heard Eliza say to Mary Margaret one day while they were cleaning up a mess I'd made in my bathroom. Leave it to Eliza to suddenly have become my nursemaid and psychiatrist. "But Aunt Eliza-" "Don't interrupt your elders when they're talkin', Mary Margaret," Eliza said, "I know exactly what's wrong with him." "What is it then?" "It's the Covenant Family Curse," Eliza said, loud enough for the whole house to hear. She obviously thought I was asleep, or she wouldn't be talking gossip. "Oh, you don't really think-" Mary Margaret started. "I do think this family is cursed. Think about it, child. It all started with my poor Lizbeth. Miss Evaline-God rest her soul-had birthed four healthy children before that one, and it killed her. How else would you explain the horrible sickness that befell her so many years ago? And what of Aaron and Bethany? Oh, I know Aaron was capable of anything, but Bethany was in her prime. And Ambrose-well, who cares about him anyway? Now, Jeremiah, dying of the same things Lizbeth died of, plagued by the same curse that took every one of them, even Joseph. Now how can you tell me this family is not cursed? I was thoroughly convinced that my maid was demented, not I. Of course, the idea of a curse had crossed my mind, but those things were for the dark ages, not the early nineteen twenties. I have been putting off that letter, hoping against hope that this is only a nightmare. My eyes are wide open and I am not crazy-despite what my maid might think. I have called for Eliza and today, I shall send for Patrick and put an end to this mess.  
  
23rd October 1922  
  
"My condition worsens and soon I'll be wasted down to nothing.  
Hastening toward the afterlife and the inevitable family reunion, I  
fully realize that I do need assistance before my time comes. Thus the  
letter is sent. My only hope is that Galloway answers in time."  
  
Jeremiah Covenant  
Companion to Clive Barker's Undying 


End file.
